Cassandra in Crimson
by Princess of Radiance
Summary: It stings being told you're not the Chosen One, but the least you can do is be a prophet for his cause, warning him of the future in your own blood and hoping he'll see.


He was pretty sure he was already half-crazy when he met the goddess.

After all, what the fuck was this chick doing in a vault under the Vatican that looked way too modern to have been built in the 15th century? And claiming she was a Roman goddess, to boot! Shit, that was just not right.

But apparently, she was real - er, relatively speaking. Because she'd been right.

Most people probably thought it was the bleeding effect that drove him mad - well, it did. It did. But the breaking point had definitely been getting that email, cold and impersonal and she didn't even bother to fucking say it to his face, playing for understanding but coming across as massive hypocrite. That's what did it.

Losing his one and only hope out of the dark cold metal place and the voices and ghosts of so many lives that didn't belong to him.

He had decided then, in a burst of lucidity rarer and rarer at the time, that there was only one thing left to do, only one way out.

He remembered when he was little, really little, he'd gone to Disneyland with his parents (the only time he'd gone, before Dad started being so stingy with money). They'd gone to the Haunted Mansion, and what Clay remembered now, crytalline clear, was the narrator - "This chamber has no windows and no doors, which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out! Of course, there's always my way." And the crackle of tinned thunder and a prerecorded scream, the ride lighting up to reveal the hanged man in the ceiling.

Always that way out.

But he had to do what he was supposed to, had to help this other guy. He was torn, split in two between freedom and duty.

The discovery of Vidic's ballpoint pen on the floor near the Animus was what gave him the idea.

It hurt for the next few days, slipping away inside the Animus when no one was looking, painstakingly copying his being and snapping it apart like legos, tucking them away across Florence and Venice and Rome. It was the only way to ensure they wouldn't find him, the ghost in the machine.

That had made him laugh shakily, and the night he finished found himself staring up at the steel ceiling of his bedroom, turning the pen slowly in his hands and humming to himself - only to laugh harder when he realized what song it was.

"Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do…" He whispered, snorting. Though it was a small satisfaction to remember that, remember being a fan of science fiction before this went downhill.

He'd wanted to be an astronaut. Maybe when he— when he was free, he'd get to see space at long last. Maybe. He could dream, though dreaming seemed dull and pointless now.

The next morning he was up, wired on adrenaline and fear and the manic energy the insane had. But no, maybe he wasn't insane. For wasn't insanity repeating oneself thinking it will be different? He knew nothing would change if he kept this routine up. He knew he'd be trapped forever, losing himself in bits and chunks as his self, his mind and soul, were eroded and blurred between so many memories of times long gone.

It hurt, hurt like hell, like fire and ice and everything all at once, but then the crimson began to well up under the tip of the pen and drip onto the sheets, and it was…freeing. He opened up his arm to the elbow with a jerk and a choked howl of triumph, and barely managed to do the same to the other before his fingers twitched and danced and let the pen fall onto the soaked bed.

His vision was already dimming at the edges, like movie gone faded with age, and he flung himself at the wall above the bed, slick dripping fingers making pictures and words and half the time he wasn't even conscious of what he was writing and drawing.

He blinked slowly, heavily, realizing the wall was full, and stood, falling into the door and slamming a lead-weight hand against the panel until it opened. He staggered to the Animus, dropping to his knees and painting around it with bright carmine strokes of his own life, laughing like a wounded hyena, high-pitched and wheezing.

He barely heard footsteps and a scream, and if he'd had the strength he'd have given that traitorous bitch a wink and the finger when he fell back to meet her horrified gaze, but he didn't.

Instead he spat bloody saliva onto Vidic's cheek when he was roughly dragged to his feet, the Templar scientist demanding a doctor because his precious precious subject sixteen was not about to escape.

The man stopped talking long enough for Clay to leer at him, letting loose one further bark of choked laughter.

"I'm free, Doc, and fuck you." He spat out triumphantly, then slumped tiredly, his dead weight forcing the older man to drop him.

He landed heavily but didn't feel it, because everything was so fantastically _numb_. His eyes slipped shut with a sigh, and he smiled. Because he was free. He was free and all he had to do was wait for Desmond, pass on what he could, and…and then he was done. Done and he could rest and nothing could hurt him anymore.

He'd left that kid the Truth, and now it was up to him to find it.


End file.
